House of Dust by Paul Johnston Page B

flecked with spittle. “But you aren’t, are you?” She turned on her heel. “Away and inaugurate the prison with your fascist friends.”
    I watched her storm through the gateway and disappear in the twilight.
    The guardsmen by the Land-Rovers nodded at me, their bearded faces creased in mocking smiles.
    â€œHad you on the run there, didn’t she, citizen?” one of them said.
    I was on the point of laying into him when I remembered Katharine’s reproof – and restricted myself to giving him and his mate the benefit of my middle finger.
    Three hours in the castle did nothing to improve my mood. Davie and I found a small unused room across the yard from the command centre and co-ordinated the investigation from there. Hamilton and the Mist kept appearing and disturbing us, but at least the confined space prevented them setting up permanent residence.
    â€œDo you want that roll?” Davie asked, eyeing the sole survivor of what had originally been a heaped plate supplied by the castle mess.
    â€œOne slice of reconstituted mutton per lifetime is enough for me, thanks.”
    He leaned forward and snaffled the wholemeal bap. Shortly afterwards he spoke some words I couldn’t decipher.
    â€œDidn’t they teach you not to eat with your mouth full on the auxiliary training programme?”
    He glowered at me and swallowed. “What do you want to do now?” he said, enunciating like the jackasses who read the news on Radio Free City – the Information Directorate thinks listeners enjoy being talked down to.
    â€œOh, right.” I gave him a derisory smile. “What do I want to do now? I want to get to my bed, big man. There’s not exactly much going on here.”
    Davie looked at the notes he’d made. “Dead Dod’s file didn’t tell us much we couldn’t guess.”
    â€œPersistent truancy, a spell in a Youth Detention Centre for stealing clothing vouchers from his granddad, failure to attend a whole series of work placements,” I read from my notebook.
    Davie nodded. “Plus numerous sightings with known members of the Leith Lancers.”
    â€œAnd none of the few we’ve caught are telling us anything about Dod or about what happened to him.”
    â€œDo you reckon they know who attacked him?” he asked, draining the last of his barracks tea from a chipped City Guard mug.
    I shrugged. “Maybe not. Dead Dod seems to have been a bit of a loner. Which would have made him a perfect target for the assailant.”
    â€œSo,” Davie said, throwing down his pencil, “no witnesses from Socrates Lane, no statement from the victim – who’s still comatose from whatever hyper-strength drug was pumped into him – and nothing useful from the scene-of-crime squad. Hell of a day’s work, eh?”
    There was a knock on the door and a statuesque guards-woman came in. “Report from the scene-of-crime squad, commander,” she said, handing Davie a maroon folder and giving him a smile that was warmer than the occasion required.
    â€œFriend of yours?” I asked as the door closed behind her.
    â€œOh aye,” he said, grinning. “I’m a great believer in maintaining close relationships with my team.”
    â€œPrimarily the female members of your team.”
    He’d raised a hand. “Hang on. It looks like I spoke too soon. The SOCS has lifted some footprints from the locus.”
    â€œI’m not surprised. There was enough muck on the floors in there.”
    His face darkened. “No good, though. They can’t match the prints with anything in their archive.”
    I went round to his side of the table and checked the facsimile of the print. “What, this shoe or boot is unknown to them?”
    He ran his finger down the report. “That’s what they say.”
    I leaned back against the table, hearing the wood squeak on the bare flagstones. “Interesting.